


This Was Done in Silence

by Krasimer



Series: Without a Trace (This Was Done In Silence) [2]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Crazy Waylon, Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, Nanite Ghosts, Nightmares, One-Sided Attraction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Waylon on the run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-16 07:31:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5819653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krasimer/pseuds/Krasimer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waylon, a year and a half on the run, gets found by someone he never expected to meet.</p><p>But first, he dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dreams of a Darling man

Waylon swallowed nervously, watching the figure in front of him turn on their heel and come towards him.

He was sitting at a table, his hand laying flat on the surface of it, his cane nowhere in sight. Heart beating faster as the other came closer, he breathed in through his nose, letting it out in a whoosh of air from his mouth. When they sat down, he nearly vaulted out of his chair, struggling when the strong fingers of Eddie Gluskin wrapped around his wrist. 

"I'm sorry, Darling, you really must find me detestable." 

It was his voice, his mannerisms from the hospital, the slight British-lisp to his words that Waylon remembered, but it wasn't him. 

Couldn't be him.

His skin and clothing were clean of blood, his eyes a vibrant blue without any of the damage that had been done to them. His hair was neatly swept back, kept in place with a small amount of gel, and he actually wore clothing that looked nice. For some reason, Waylon relaxed, albeit cautiously, as he studied the man before him.

"You never did meet me at my best." Eddie continued as if he hadn't tried to get away from him. "And I really do apologize for that."

"...I don't think it was your fault." Waylon answered, his free hand drumming on the tabletop. "There were things done to you, and it wasn't because you deserved it."

"I am glad you think so," Eddie pressed his hand to his heart, smiling warmly. It wasn't the toothy smile he had used when he'd first met Waylon outside of the incident in the testing chamber, but something softer. "It warms me to know that you think that. That hospital was a cruel place, such things done to a man...It was inhumane."

Waylon met his eyes, holding that brilliantly blue gaze. "Is this a dream?"

"I suppose." Eddie shrugged, letting go of Waylon's wrist. "I have always wondered if the dead could dream. Do you think we can? Or is death the end of those who have passed? I'm not sure I like the idea of coming to an end before my fiftieth birthday. Do you know when you are supposed to die, Darling?"

Still holding his eyes with his own, Waylon frowned. "You never learned my name."

"I did not. You were only ever a memory and my Darling." Eddie's hands clasped together in his lap. "What is your name, may I learn it now?"

"Waylon Park." he found himself answering. "And this isn't even the weirdest thing I've gone through."

"Of course it isn't," Eddie laughed, a throaty and real sort of noise that was tinged with sadness. "You survived that dreadful place. You managed to make it out of Mount Massive Asylum, darling Waylon. And now, I fear," he stood slowly, leaning forward slightly. "You must wake up and run some more."

He pressed a kiss to Waylon's forehead, sending a jolt through his body.

 

He landed on the floor with a thud, his arms flailing as his legs tangled in the blankets. Outside his motel room, he could hear the footsteps of a group of people, his drawn curtains almost glowing from the light shining through them. 

Dimly, he could hear someone shouting, and it dawned on him slowly that it was a call to order, someone telling others to search the rooms.

Breathing heavily, he yanked his glasses off the bedside table, thankful he had fallen asleep in his clothing the night before. With quick motions slurred by exhaustion, he pulled on his shoes, hopping across the room towards his bags and cane where they stood by the door. Pulling open the curtain a crack, he looked outside, watching the movements of what looked to be a SWAT team but probably wasn't.

Hissing out a curse, he dragged his bag onto his back, pulling the other onto his shoulder and making for the back window as fast as he could. He had paid for the three nights he had stayed upfront, knowing deep down that any longer than that would be hazardous to his health.

Murkoff had resources all over the world, and he gulped down his nerves as he hitched his legs out the window, dropping his duffel bag down first. It was packed with clothing and cords, a softer landing than the almost frozen ground. Before he could get very far, a hand curled into the collar of his sweater, dragging him back and against the wall.

The heat of the body pressing close to his, one hand over his mouth, nearly made him panic.

"Shut up, would you?" a voice hissed, the hand on his face going tighter for a second. "They have dogs with them, and I don't think that someone with a crippled leg is going to want to try to outrun them!" the other man looked around wildly, his face covered in stubble and dirt as he-

His eyes were nearly all black.

Waylon took a deep breath, his own eyes going wide as he studied the man holding onto him. The hand over his mouth was missing a finger, and it took a few moments, but Waylon recognized him.

"...You're Miles Upshur." he whispered, hand clenching tightly around his cane. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry I sent you in there, it was the coward's way out and-"

"Shut up!" Miles hissed again, his eyes narrowing. "Can't you see that I'm trying to keep your dumb ass alive? If they catch us here, we're both dead, so how about you sit quietly for a second?" he rolled his eyes, tilting his head as if listening to something Waylon couldn't hear. "How you survived a year and a half with Murkoff following behind you, I'll never know..." he grumbled.

Pulling away, he took the larger of Waylon's bags in his hand, easily hefting it over one shoulder with a strength that didn't match his frame. 

"The last time I saw you," Waylon began as he practically galloped to catch up to the man, his cane slipping a little on the muddy ground behind the motel. "You were surrounded by a black cloud and it didn't look good for you."

"Project Walrider needs a host," Miles shot back, turning to drag Waylon up a small hill by the front of his shirt. "It wasn't going to let me die from a couple of bullet wounds to the chest. Or a couple of missing fingers." he let Waylon settle on his feet, then continued walking at a fast pace. "Thanks for taking my jeep, by the way."

"Oh, I didn't know it was yours. It just looked like my best shot at getting the hell out of there." Waylon winced when Miles lifted an eyebrow. "I'm sorry."

"No, seriously, thank you for taking it. It had my press pass and my ID and everything in it. Now, Murkoff doesn't know who Walrider's host is, and I was able to go into blackout mode to get away from them." his strange eyes glinted in the darkness. "Plus, I was sort of the one guiding the damn car out of there in the first place. Your leg was fucked, buddy, did you really think you were driving on your own?"

"I wasn't actually sure," Waylon huffed out, gripping a tree with one arm as he paused for a moment. "I remember making it home, my wife coming out at a run to see me, and then I remember waking up in a hospital."

Miles looked at him, allowing the stop for a few minutes. "They tried to kill you there, too, by the way. I stopped a couple of them from getting into your room, stopped one of them from putting something in your IV. I think they were planning on killing you with morphine or something." he sighed, brushing one of his four-fingered hands through his hair. "The only reason they let you upload that video file was because they thought they could corrupt it as it loaded in. Now they're hunting you down because they couldn't, and they're in a world of shit."

He pulled something out of his pocket. "A couple of letters were sent to you, by the way. I've been checking on the families of everyone involved in this, and a woman named Susannah Walker sent a letter." he grinned, an almost feral threat in the motion of it. "She's spearheading a bunch of different damage claim lawsuits against them. In particular, the ones about where their missing family members went."

"Miss Walker?" Waylon took the letter from him, smiling at it briefly before slinging his backpack onto one arm and unzipping it just enough to slide it in. "She's looking for her brother, I hope he survived. Did you ever run into any information about him? I know that some files were strewn about the place when we we're trying to get out."

"...He's..." Miles shook his head. "He didn't make it out. Walrider was still using Billy Hope as a host when it found me and Chris in a hallway down by the testing chambers. I've never seen a man so thoroughly destroyed before, and I haven't seen anything like it since, even with my poking into Murkoff's history. Poor bastard got shoved into an air vent..." he shuddered, waving away the memory. "Do you still have my camera?"

"I do, yeah." Waylon stretched, then started moving again. "Where are we heading?"

"You're heading for a hospital. When I said I was checking on the families involved, I meant yours too." Miles made a face. "As dangerous as it is for a man on the run to be that public, I think you want to be with her right now." he followed Waylon up the next hill, bracing him when he stumbled. "I'm starting to understand why you took the job with Murkoff now."

Waylon's face was pale and drained, his brow drawn down with worry. "Lisa's medical bills were just too much, and I was being laid off. They offered so much money, the first three days of pay alone would have been enough to pay off the bills and keep us going for a lot longer."

"She's not dying yet, but she's..." Miles pursed his lips. "I don't know the terms exactly, but it came back."

"We knew there was always a chance. They can't get everything when they go in and cut the cancerous cells out." Waylon rubbed at his cheek as Miles guided him across a clearing and into a car. "You got your jeep back. Good."

"You left it at your house. When I told her who I was, she let me take it back." Miles looked out the window, throwing the car into reverse and peeling out of the parking spot at a speed that almost threw Waylon out of his seat. "She asked me to find you. The boys are apparently at a family member's house while she's in the hospital."

Waylon nodded. "Good."

There was a silence between them for the rest of the ride, almost easy but decidedly uncomfortable, only ending when Miles switched on the radio a few counties away.


	2. There's a Man in the Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an escape from a rest stop and some weirder things occur.

He was back at the table again.

It was covered in scratches, a length of chain curled up on one corner of it. "This isn't right," he whispered, frowning at it. 

"Nothing about that place was right, why would anything after be any better?" came a deep voice from off to one side. When he turned, he saw a man who towered over him, would have still done so even if he had been standing. His thick arms were behind his back, as if he were clasping his hands together in a loose military stance. One leg was slightly behind the other, as if he had paused mid-step. "You spoke to my sister."

Waylon nodded slowly. "I think I did. Are you Chris Walker?"

"Yes sir." came the response as the behemoth of a man stepped completely out of the shadows. His face was softer than he would have expected, a few scars marring his lips and nose. "They're from before the asylum, if that's what you're wondering."

"I didn't mean to stare, I just-"

Chris shrugged, finally dropping his arms to his sides as he sat down next to Waylon. His stomach, although large and muscled, was not as big as it had been in the hospital. "It's fine, Park. I'm just glad I didn't kill you."

"You tried, once."

"I did." Chris met his eyes, his own a warm shade of dark brown. "I was trying to contain the Walrider. If it got out, it would have destroyed the nearest city. I remember-" he cut himself off, frowning. "It would have caused more civilian casualities than could be allowed. The number of people that died in the asylum because of it...It had to be stopped."

"I don't think you need to apologize for what you did. I mean, you murdered a bunch of people, but you kept muttering about interrogations and things." Waylon swallowed nervously when those eyes landed on him. "You were trying to do the right thing."

"I'm glad you think so." Chris's lips quirked up on one side, a hint of a smile. "Can I ask you to extend an apology to the reporter? I didn't know who he was at the time, and I just couldn't think of anything beyond keeping the threat contained." he made a noise in his throat, rubbing at his wrists where he had moved them to his lap. "The Walrider was a threat. Anyone insane enough to hold him needed to be eliminated to keep the world at large safe."

Waylon pinched his lips together. "Does that apology change if I tell you that Miles is the host of Walrider now? If it helps, he seems to be in charge, for the most part. He got me out of there alive, kept me alive through the assassination attempts of the Murkoff corporation."

"He's the host?" Chris looked startled. "That thing killed me."

"What is going on here?" Waylon asked instead of answering. "Why do I keep getting visits from the dead? I've been out of the asylum for almost two years now, what the hell does it mean that I'm suddenly seeing you two in my dreams?"

Chris's jaw twitched, a muscle going tight as he clenched his teeth together. "Gluskin sees you because he wants to. I see you because I need to tell you things. When I get more information, I will be back to report in to you." he stood up abruptly. "You should wake up now, you're almost to the hospital."

He prodded a finger against Waylon's forehead with a grunt.

 

The sensation of falling while in a moving vehicle, Waylon decided, was not a pleasant one.

At the strangled noise he made, Miles stomped on the brake, eyes wide. "What the fuck?" he hissed, looking over at the smaller man. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, my dreams are just getting a little too realistic." Waylon cleared his throat. "Almost there, right? How many more minutes is almost there?" he peered out the windshield, wincing at the bright light. "And do we have a close place to go to the bathroom?"

"...How-" Miles shifted back into gear, taking the next turn off the main road, the sign informing them of a rest stop. "How the hell did you know we were close to the hospital? You've been asleep for the last several hours. You've been pretty much unresponsive, actually." he pulled into a parking spot. "Go to the bathroom, come back in as little time as possible. I'm going to find you food, divide the labor a little."

Waylon clambered out of the car, settling his cane on the ground before resting weight on his feet. "Alright."

Stepping into the bathroom felt...Off.

A shiver ran down Waylon's spine as he let the door close behind him, limping for the urinals at a slow pace. An expression of unease on his face, he kneeled down to get a quick look at the space below the stalls. 'Don't call out,' a voice echoed in his head, sounding oddly like Chris Walker. 'Don't let them get a chance to identify you,'. He nodded, standing back up slowly and positioning himself so that he could see behind him using the reflections off the metal and the mirror.

He finished as fast as he could, washing his hands in the freezing water from the slightly-rusty sink and practically running out the door.

A hand clamped around his shoulder the moment the door was shut, dragging him back towards the jeep. "Shut up, stay quiet, don't draw attention to yourself." Miles muttered in his ear, supporting him as they stormed towards the car. "I can't do anything about it without them knowing exactly what's going on with me, so we just need to keep moving."

"Slow down then!" Waylon hissed back, freeing one of his hands to wrap it around Miles's. "If we randomly move fast, we're going to be spotted in a crowd. I may not have good survival skills, but there is a reason I've lasted this long against Murkoff. Blend in, hold my hand, and pretend we're stopping on a road trip."

"I'm not g-"

"Do it or get shot." Waylon grumbles, fighting against the pain in his leg from Miles making him go so fast. When his only answer is the man's hand curling almost too tightly around his own, their fingers slotting together. "Can you see where they are?"

Miles swallows his answer for a moment, pretending to press a kiss to Waylon's cheek as he mutters, "One on the roof, another patrolling near the parking lot. Spotted them when I was about a hundred some odd feet from the car. Thoughts on getting away?" he pulled back, a smile plastered on his face and nothing but the terror of some feral creature backed into a corner in his eyes. "I didn't see more than that, but I might have missed something."

"Just stay calm," Waylon smiled back, feeling his heart rate speed up. "We're only twenty feet from the car now." he squeezed the hand in his reassuringly, getting a mental image of Eddie Gluskin's last moments, the way he had held his hand. "Just keep walking and don't startle."

"Why am I not startling?" Miles gritted out.

Waylon slid his hand into the man's pants pocket, patting gently at his ass. "Public displays of affection get you unnoticed, play along for a second. Nearly there, twelve feet left. You're doing really well."

Taking a deep breath and looking like he was considering bolting, Miles nodded, allowing it. "Just don't squeeze. I have a limit to how far I'll go with a guy."

"Good to know your limits, but here's the tricky bit." 

They were approaching the nose of the car, where they would have to separate out and end the distraction soon. Doing so would call attention to them, and Miles frowned at the thought, meeting Waylon's eyes. "I'm sorry for this, and I feel like I'm going to need to apologize to Lisa as well." he muttered before grabbing Waylon around the waist and sliding one hand up his back and into his hair, pressing them together and nudging his nose against Waylon's.

From the outside, it must have looked real, Waylon thought.

They pulled apart slowly, checking to see if any attention was being paid to them before they slid into their seats in the jeep. Starting the engine, Miles drove slowly out of the parking lot, practically jamming his foot against the floor the moment they were in the clear. "Holy shit, that actually worked."

"I am a techie, I am five foot four and part Asian, and my wife could hand me my ass on a good day." Waylon laid out the facts in front of Miles. "I don't have much of a physical defense tactic when it comes to fighting, my main thing is run, hide, or distract so I can hide in plain sight. Others on the run from Murkoff have done that particular tactic with me before."

"...Is that how you managed to escape Mount Massive?"

"I hid until things went away or I ran until I got away. Not much to say, other than that." he shuddered as he thought about another of the inmates he had encountered. "There was a cannibal named Frank, he chased me through what must have been half the damn building with an electric bonesaw."

"There was a cannibal?" Miles made a face. "Okay, I thought I'd had a bad time there, I ran into Trager and Walker and Hope and became the Walrider host, but you had a cannibal and no training for athletic survival."

"I also had to deal with Gluskin and nearly lost my dick." Waylon shook his head. "I don't know how to honestly answer about which one of us had the worst time there."

Miles laughed. "A little run in with a cannibal and you make a bad joke about him going for the sausage? You're a little heavy handed there."

"Frank wasn't the one going for it. Eddie Gluskin was known as 'The Groom' and he took people and cut the male parts off and implanted fatty tissue to make breasts so that he could have a 'bride'. He had me strapped to a fucking table and was all ready to use his table saw to try and make it so that I could have his babies." Waylon shook his head again, curling his hand tightly around his cane. "He had an entire gym full of corpses that he'd done this shit to and then strung up for being 'Whores' and 'betraying him'. He called me Darling and then Whore in practically the same breath."

"...When you say 'strung up', what..."

"I mean he put rope around a leg or an arm or a neck and hung them from the damn ceiling." Waylon made a face. "That's actually how he died. I was thrashing when he tried to do the same to me, which caused the old support struts in the roof to give out. When he yanked harder on the rope, he stumbled and got caught in the other ropes he had used to hang his victims. From there, it was a counter-balance system that led to him getting a hole in his guts and creepily saying his last words to me."

Miles shuddered, flicking on his turn signal. "Mind if I ask what they were?"

"...I," Waylon opened his mouth, then felt himself close down. It should have been easy, should have been the easiest thing to say them out loud, to tell someone. They were miles and miles away from Mount Massive, nearly two years after the fact. Eddie Gluskin was dead, Waylon Park was alive, even if he wasn't well, and it should have been easy to tell another survivor what his last words had been.

But he couldn't get them out.

Something must have shown in his face, some sort of panic or hurt, because Miles shook his head and gave him a small, worried smile. "It's fine, I get it. We're about three minutes from the hospital by the way."

He felt the unease clear away, and he remembered something. "I think there might have been another person at the rest stop, in the bathroom with me."

"Shit, really?" Miles made a face, taking one last turn before starting up a hill, the hospital at the top of it. "Did you hear anyone? See anyone?"

"No, it was more just...A feeling I got." Waylon cleared his throat, then frowned. "I almost called out to see if anyone was there, but something told me to keep quiet. You know that prickle at the back of your neck when someone's watching you? It was that sort of thing, and it's really hard to explain, but..."

"I think I get what you mean." Miles swallowed. "I'm going to drop you off at the front, then go and park somewhere, alright? A guy with a cane being dropped off in front of the hospital won't look out of place."

"Got it."

Six fingers tapped on the steering wheel for a second before Miles spoke again. "What do you mean, 'Something told you'? Most people mean something from instinct, but you don't sound like that's what you mean."

"This is going to sound really weird, but it was the voice of Chris Walker."

Miles nodded, then made a face as he pulled up to the curb. "Out you go, I'll meet up with you in a few minutes. She's under her name, so it'll be easy to find her, you just need to get to the front desk and tell them who you're looking for."

Waylon eased the car door open, then smiled. "Thank you, Miles."

"Just doing my best to help." Miles jerked his head. "Now get the fuck out of my car so I can go park."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're starting to get to where I'm really excited to be writing this.
> 
> I hope someone out there is enjoying this story.


	3. Lisa Smiles And-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris explains some things.

Lisa was asleep when he got into her room, settling down in the chair next to her bed.

Her hair had been sheared off, a few silvery lines of scarring crossing over her scalp. Each rise and fall of her chest was measured, and he slid his hand into hers, tangling their fingers together. His ring tapped against hers, a faint clink of metal in the mostly quiet room, barely able to be heard under the noise of her various accompanying machines.

Her heartbeat was steady.

"She's sleeping?" came the voice of Miles from behind him. 

Waylon nodded, swallowing as he looked over the rims of his glasses. "She's probably exhausted. I'm not making life any easier for her by being on the run, and the boys are so energetic. We knew this would happen when I outed Murkoff, but we weren't prepared for..." he licked his lips, looking back at her. 

"I don't think anyone's ever prepared for this shit." Miles sighed, slumping into the other chair in the room, crossing his leg over his knee and sitting back in his new seat. "And Murkoff makes it especially worse."

Waylon nodded again, a small yawn pushing out from his throat, making him shake his head in annoyance. "I've slept so much today, I shouldn't be tired right now."

"You've slept, but you've been running." Miles made a face. "Tell you what, you get some sleep at the bedside of your wife, and when she wakes up I'll wake you up. Sound good? Two years of running is bound to leave you exhausted, so how about that?"

"That sounds-" Incredible. Amazing. Wonderful. If his wife weren't in the bed in front of him, he'd offer to kiss Miles. Or maybe he wouldn't have, the man seemed slightly unstable and angry, and it was probably a few sprinting miles over Miles's limits with another guy. "That would be great, actually. Thank you." he took a slow, deep breath in through his nose. "Are you going to keep watch?"

"Yeah." Miles looked briefly out the window, as if he were scanning the area. "Don't worry, nothing is getting in here unless it's supposed to be in here."

Waylon leaned back in his chair, asleep within seconds.

"Poor guy must really be worn out..." Miles muttered, turning to face the door, crossing his arms over his chest. He'd leave the two to their rest, keep an eye on things out in the hallway. It wouldn't do anyone any good to have the two of them nabbed by some Murkoff goon.

 

There was almost no surprise this time when he opened his eyes and he was in the room. 

What surprised him was that both Chris Walker and Eddie were present. The larger of the two had his hands braced on the table, as if he were going to push it into Eddie's midsection to try and break him in half. Eddie himself looked almost violent, his knuckles white, fists clenched at his sides.

"Uh..." Waylon looked between the two of them. "What's going on?"

"Disagreement." Chris grunted. "I have intell for you, he just wanted to see you. We're..." he cleared his throat. "Arguing over whose need is greater at the moment."

Eddie turned to look at him, his blue eyes almost pleading as the rage left them. "He says that there is no logical reason for my wanting to see you, it's not as if you know..." he trailed off, then shook his head, coming around the corner of the table and pulling a chair out for Waylon. "Here," he said softly. "I am being a fool, you should listen to what Chris has to say." he lifted Waylon's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to a knuckle, settling it gently down on the table before he left the room.

Chris settled down next to him. "By now, you've probably noticed something about seeing us."

"That it's repeated and kind of weird?" Waylon laughed. "Kind of got that, yeah."

The much bigger man sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Does Miles ever sleep? That was something I wanted to ask last time, but we ran out of time."

"...Not that I've seen." 

Grumbling under his breath, Chris scrubbed a hand over his jaw, a nail catching in one of the scars below his lip. "Damn it..." he shook his head. "I'm not sure of the science behind it myself, so forgive me if I get it wrong, but the Morphogenic Engine nanites- Nanobots, whatever the hell they're called...They were organically grown. They were a part of us."

"Uh," Waylon's brow furrowed. 

"In a way, we became the computers." Chris gestured around the room. "This is an image from your mind, I'm guessing a couple of places combined into one. But," he pressed his hand to his chest. "We're a projection of the nanites left behind from our living selves. We were both considered candidates for the Walrider host at one point or another. Gluskin is able to actually touch you, so you should be careful about that."

"Wait wait," Waylon swiped his hands through the air sharply, cutting off any further words. "Are you telling me that you guys are robotic versions of yourselves in my mind?"

"Something to that effect."

"How?"

Chris shifted uncomfortably, his boots straining around his feet and the chair creaking underneath him. "I don't know. Miles either doesn't sleep enough for us to get in contact, or he isn't susceptible to it for some reason. I don't know why the hell you are, but you are, and it's dangerous for you because you contain enough information for Murkoff to rebuild everything."

A brief snippet of memory flashed into Waylon's mind, a dark room and the Devil himself in a suit, holding the laptop he had used to blow the cover on Murkoff's dirty secrets.

_'Oh, and... Did I just hear Mister Waylon Park volunteer for the Morphogenic Engine program?'_

"Shit..." Waylon covered his mouth, his stomach giving a shudder, as if threatening to lose everything from the past week or so. It'd been doing that often lately, more often than he would have liked. "I know why. Blaire, Jeremy Blaire. When he found me out, when he had enough information to know for a fact that I was the Whistleblower, he cornered me and had a couple of security guards beat the crap out of me. He pretended that I willingly submitted myself as a patient, and that I was volunteering for the-" he cut off, eyes wide behind his glasses as he met Chris's eyes. "He volunteered me for the Morphogenic Engine."

"In other words, you got dosed with the same nanites that we did." Chris's eyes fell closed, a moment of sheer panic crossing his face. "Gluskin is aware enough of what he did, he knows, however vaguely, that it was wrong."

"...?"

"He told me some of what he said as he chased after you in the halls of Mount Massive. 'Even these idiots and lunatics see it. There's something special about you.', that's what he said once." Chris opened his eyes again. "You were exposed to them, but you never took on any of the physical symptoms of it. I read some of the files, when it still mattered to me. In the beginning." he pinched the bridge of his nose. "A patient with the right mindset, with the right conditions and the right combination of everything, could still be wrong as the Walrider's host."

"Why do you seem even more worried now? I was only in the system for a couple of hours, that shouldn't be-"

"Half an hour would have been enough." Chris answered gravely. "A patient with no physical symptoms would have been the perfect host for the Walrider. Billy Hope was almost good enough, if it weren't for the fact that when he was actually turned into the host, his mind went and his body almost immediately started giving out."

Waylon took a deep breath, placing both of his hands flat on the table. "Alright. Let me get this straight. You two are nanobot projections, AI versions of the two you once were. Those same nanobots are within me, and that's how you can talk to me."

"So far, so good."

"Okay." Waylon made a face. "I'm apparently a perfect host for the Walrider, which is currently hitching a ride in Miles's head. Why isn't he a splatter on the ground?"

"Because the Walrider is a spirit, and it'll heal him anytime he gets injured. Once he stops being useful to it, it'll jump hosts, leaving him to die. I think that because he doesn't have the nanites, I can't go warn him myself." Chris shrugged. "It'll overexert itself and run down his body doing that, eventually. Then he'll die." 

"Isn't there anything that I can do? The man got put through that..." Waylon shuddered. " _Hell_ because of me. It isn't right that he's in danger because of it."

Chris shook his head slowly, curling his hands together and picking gently at a scar on his knuckles. "Not as far as I know, not without submitting both of you back into Murkoff's control. I think that everyone of us feels the same about that, our opinion firmly in the camp of 'no fucking way'."

He watched Waylon hesitate, looking at his hands. "Don't do it, Park. Don't let the guilt get to you. He could have chosen not to follow you in, could have chosen to not come alone. You didn't know what would happen to him."

"I was just...Desperate for someone to know, someone outside of their control. What they were getting up to, it terrified me." Waylon's throat clicked as he swallowed. "I should have gone the moment I figured it out, should have done something else- ANYTHING else would have been better than what I did." he scrubbed roughly at his face with his hands. "There were so many patients who got shoved into the Engine because of my hesitance."

The frown on Chris's face grew sterner, the man settling a hand on Waylon's shoulder. "Murkoff would have done that anyways. If you had rebelled, they probably would have done something even worse to you. They tend to make their problems go away with a smile and a check written out to whoever it needs to go to."

"...What did they do to you?" Waylon asked hesitantly, eyes wide.

Chris's frown shifted into a sad smile. "I don't think you actually want to know. I'm also not going to tell you."

Both of them turned when they heard a woman's voice, the feel of a phantom hand in Waylon's hair making him smile. "I think I need to wake up now."

"Your wife is calling, go talk to her." Chris shooed him away, raising an eyebrow before tapping a knuckle against his forehead, making the smaller man wince. "Take care of yourself out there, Park. Running and hiding can only get you so far when you haven't got anyone on your side."

 

When he opened his eyes, the lights of the hospital room seemed so much brighter than he remembered them being, the sun setting outside of the window and casting shadows over his skin.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," came the happily sarcastic voice of Lisa Park. Her lips were upturned in a gentle smile, one of her hands reaching out to take one of his. Her eyes were tired, but she seemed well, her skin only a shade or two lighter than it usually was. The hollows under her eyes concerned him, but she didn't seem bothered. "How'd you sleep?"

"Weirdly." he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, almost purring when she splayed it flat, allowing him to press his cheek into her palm. "Keep talking to the dead, and I don't think I look enough like Haley Joel Osmond for that."

Lisa laughed, the sound of it full and throaty. "Keep being weird, you crazy little man." she sighed. "I'm sorry to have drawn you out in the open, it's just...Some of the test results have been scaring the doctors, and I wanted you to know. Upshur turned up, claiming to be something of a friend of yours, claimed to be someone able to find you. When he offered, I took him up on it. I know we made plans to meet up, but-"

"You don't have to explain." Waylon assured her, curling his fingers through hers. "Speaking of, where is he?"

"He wandered off to get coffee just as I started waking you up." Lisa's eyes were almost sparkling, as if they had been carved from gems and somehow he had forgotten. "He seems like an interesting man. More the weird and crazy uncle than a father or safe to have around kids, but he seems good."

"Yeah." Waylon's brow furrowed, worry straining across his face. "He kind of is."

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the apple of her cheek. "Lisa, I have to go talk to him about something. I'll be back in a bit, don't worry."

"Says the man who never once picked up a weapon in his own defense. You know I can handle myself." she pushed him away jokingly, a smile stretching her face now. "Go find your new boyfriend, I'll just be the wife in the hospital bed."

"He's not my boyfriend!" Waylon laughed as he headed for the door. "Should I bring you back anything?"

"The hearts of my enemies, on a golden platter, surrounded by chocolate." 

He made a mocking sort of bow, his hands clasped together in front of his chest. "As my Queen wishes."

Her laughter followed him out into the hallway, and he thrilled in the happy buzz in his mind, the spring it put into his step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck yeah African-American Lisa and vaguely Asian Waylon Park.
> 
> If you're still reading this, do you mind telling me what you're thinking of the story so far?


	4. It's Probably The Reason We Get Along

"Miles!" Waylon greeted the man as he hobbled closer, a strained smile twisting his face. "Need to talk to you."

The taller man raised an eyebrow as he slurped at his coffee, flexing his free hand nervously. "Those are never good words in my experience." he gestured for the other man to lead on, looking tense as he followed behind. "What's going on?"

Waylon shook his head, jerking his chin towards the bathroom. "Not out here."

The look on his face allowed for no argument, and Miles followed quietly, twisting the lock until it clicked, settling his cup of cheap-but-strong coffee on the counter and perching himself next to it. "Alright, what the hell is going on?" he crossed his arms over his chest, meeting Waylon's eyes. His own were flashing black every few seconds, the set of his shoulders waiting for the threat to reveal itself.

"Couple of things." Waylon put the lid of the toilet down, settling himself on top of it. With a groan, he cracked his neck, tilting his head one way and then the other. "First thing is that, apparently, I'm a human computer and Chris Walker and Eddie Gluskin are programs in my head. AI versions of the people they once were."

"...How do you know that?"

"Because everytime I fall asleep lately, one or the other of them is right there waiting for me. When we were in the car and I knew we were close to the hospital, it was because Chris told me to wake up and told me that." Waylon shrugged, dragging a hand through his hair. "They aren't insane, I don't think, which is a lot better than it was, but I just thought you should know. There's something going on about me having been forced into the Morphogenic Engine, nanites and projections and - Ah!" he nearly threw himself off the toilet seat sideways, narrowly avoiding the grasping hands of the Walrider.

Miles' eyes were pitch black, the only evidence of them still being in the socket the glimmer of light from the buzzing bulbs above their heads. "Are you going to be a ticking time bomb of a person or something?"

"No!" Waylon scrabbled against the floor, reaching for his cane, only for the Walrider to take it from him. 

"Is it going to be dangerous for us to be seen together because they'll be looking for you as an experiment?"

"I don't think so, could you please give me back my fucking cane?" 

With a slow, deep breath, Miles nodded, eyes flickering back to normal as the Walrider disappeared, the cane clattering to the floor. "...You were wearing a patient uniform when you were escaping."

"Unauthorized testing on the guy who blew the whistle on the shady-as-shit operations of the Murkoff corporation. This guy, Jeremy Blaire, wanted my ass on a platter when he found my laptop with what he thought was an unsent email to you. Didn't know it had actually sent, which I think might have been stupid." Waylon dragged his cane back to himself with his good leg. "Although, considering some of the rumors I heard about him, I'm really not surprised that it slipped past him."

"What'd you hear?"

"Twenty-thousand dollars in debt to some very scary guys and a lot of nosebleeds." he managed to get to his feet again, accepting Miles' hand when it was offered. "Pretty sure aggression is a symptom of a lot of things, but I'm fairly certain that he was a cocaine addict."

With a snort, Miles shook his head. "Figures. What happened to him?"

"...He was kind of the guy you pulverized just as I was getting the hell out of Mount Massive. His blood was all over me, so thanks for that." Waylon laughed, getting resettled in his previous seat. "The other thing I wanted to talk to you about...It's you."

"What about me?" Miles reset himself as well, picking up his coffee to sip slowly at it, making a face at the flavor. 

"The Walrider isn't meant to be in a plain, human, non-modified host." he chuckled when Miles held up a four fingered hand, waggling the stub at him. "Not what I mean by non-modified. I mean the nanites and hormone therapy that went into the patients at Mount Massive. Apparently, without them, there's a chance that you're going to-" his mouth flattened out into a line, lips pressed together tightly. "Walrider's host is used until they fall apart. Once that starts happening, the Walrider starts to extend it's own powers to keep the body together, at least until a new host can be found."

Miles searched his face for a moment, his mouth curled around a gulp of coffee. He swallowed, looking like he had just been told of his death. 

In a way, he had been.

"Right now I feel fine." he said quietly. "What- How. Who?"

"Chris Walker, before he went entirely off the deep end in the asylum, would read the reports he came across. It's why there weren't as many as there should have been, he hid them or some of the patients got to them." Waylon looked up at the taller man, studying his face. "Be careful, alright? We don't know what limits your body is going to have after what went on at Mount Massive."

"Got it. Don't let myself get..." Miles rubbed at his forehead. "Fuck!"

Waylon stood from his seat, stepping towards the door. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Park, don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think you get to tell a guy that fucking bullshit and expect him to be alright." Miles' fingers dug into the skin around his eye sockets for a moment, and then he shook his head. "Sorry, just...Don't, alright?"

"Got it." Waylon headed for the door, his cane tapping the floor. "We should head back into Lisa's room."

"Yeah yeah, let's go sit in the presence of your radiant goddess wife."

"Any person who knows her should be feeling lucky."

 

The walk back to Lisa's room felt like a thousand miles with the uncomfortable silence sitting in between them.

It was this, perhaps, that made Waylon sit up and pay attention to the nurse who was walking away. She had all of the right props, the right clothing, a name badge that showed her face and had a name on it. Everything was in place, not a single hair straying from her bun, her face drawn in sharp angles when she turned to look down a different hallway.

For a moment, Waylon studied her, his eyes narrowed as he took in every detail.

He felt his gut drop when he realized why she put him on edge.

"Miles," he whispered, drawing the other man back and into a crevice along one wall. "Miles, they followed us." Chris's voice was practically screaming in his head, a warning of security breached and a threatened status. "That nurse is wearing combat boots under her scrubs."

Miles went stiff at his side, peering around the corner at her as she walked away. "Shit..." he muttered. "C'mon Park, we need to get back to your wife."

A gun settled against the back of his skull, nudging almost deep enough to hit the bone. "I don't think so." a voice practically crooned, "Afterall, we wouldn't want anything to happen to your friend here, would we, Mister Park?" it was someone who seemed almost familiar, the same sort of devil in a suit as Jeremy Blaire. "One wrong move and he gets the decorate that wall behind you with some grey matter."

Reaching back, Miles grabbed Waylon's wrist, squeezing it until it felt like it would break. "I'm not really a friend, you know."

With his other hand, he attacked the threat, throwing Waylon back towards Lisa's room. Taking the cue, Waylon scrambled to stay on his feet, running as fast as he could without his cane towards where his wife still lay. From a few feet outside the door, he heard one long, steady beep.

Inside, the body of Lisa Park lay on the bed, eyes closed in a cruel mimic of sleep.

Behind him, he heard the outraged shriek of a man meeting his death. Forcing himself to look away, something wild and furious in his chest raging against the sight in front of him, he saw Miles stumbling down the hall, black smoke surrounding him. When the man handed him back his cane, he took it silently, his face a rage-induced white, his eyes wide and empty.

"They took her from me." Waylon whispered, his hand clenched so tightly on his cane that his knuckles were bloodless. His chest was heaving as if he had just run a marathon. 

Miles looked between him and the body on the bed, stunned realization hitting just a few seconds too late. "No..."

Waylon swallowed, the wildness in him not at all diminished as he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, following the path of the out-of-place nurse.

"Waylon, what the-" Miles sped after him. "Waylon, you're going to get yourself killed!"

The smaller man turned on him, his breathing heavy and his entire body tensed, ready for a fight. "I don't fucking CARE!" he snarled, still moving. "They killed the only woman I have ever loved, the mother of my children, and they have taken FAR TOO MUCH FROM ME!

"I don't care if I have to burn everything they own to the ground and salt the Earth afterwards, I am going to ruin them until nothing remains." his voice dropped into a range that Miles had never heard from him, a strangely hollow quality to it. "I am going to destroy them for what they've done."

He threw off Miles' hand. "And if I have to do it alone, I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Uh...
> 
> I would like to note that I was not planning on killing off Lisa, and I had actually planned on keeping her to help with Murkoff's destruction. Apparently, assassins had other plans for her.
> 
> Anyone want to tell me what they think?


	5. They Told Me Lies

Hunting down a supposed nurse in a hospital when she was dressed as a regular nurse with nothing more to go off of than her shoes and hair color was suddenly Miles' least favorite thing.

Waylon, crippled and unable to move quickly as he was, lagged behind him, still stuck in the halfway of chasing the killer down and staying with his wife's body until someone arrived and he could explain what had happened. His face was still locked into an expression of angry disbelief, bobbing up and down as he hobbled around the pins and plates that had reconstructed his leg after the asylum. Miles considered picking him up and running out of the hospital, mind already reeling with the possibilities. 

All of the hiding that both of them had done and suddenly Murkoff might as well have painted them bright green and shoved them into view of the world.

The man's wife was dead after the man himself had gone missing. Thanks to Miles' own impulsive temper, there was a second corpse with a bashed in brain and a gun in his hand. Right now, they were running along some of the most visited corridors in the damned hospital. One wrong move and they would be on the front page of every newspaper within a ninety mile radius, their names and faces plastered on screens in distances they wouldn't be able to escape from. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Waylon take a sharp turn off the visitor path and down an employees only hallway.

"Goddamnit Park, what the fuck are you doing?" he hissed, feeling the Walrider rearing back in alarm as he passed several security cameras. He could feel it when they shut down in reaction to the monster in his head, a small buzz and then an empty inactivity.

Ahead, the programmer slammed the tip of his cane into a door, popping the lock open neatly and practically leaping inside.

Without waiting for an explanation, Miles followed him, slapping a hand against it to force it to close faster behind him. "Seriously, what the fuck, Park?" he snarled, turning on the smaller man. What he saw was the enraged expression again, aimed at-

The nurse they had been following.

She had her back against a wall, a frown on her face as she looked between them and the door, anger in her own expression as she tried to figure it out. "How-"

"You," Waylon swallowed, the words seeming to expel themselves. "You killed Lisa."

"...Oh, is that what her name was?" she laughed, then pulled off the scrub top she wore, exposing a thick cotton tanktop and making it very obvious she wasn't wearing a bra. "See, I couldn't really care less what it was she was called, she's a dead body in a bed in a cancer ward. She probably didn't even have very lon-" she cut off with a startled shriek as Waylon moved forward faster than seemed reasonable and used the length of his cane against her neck as a chokehold.

"Her name," his lips peeled back into the most terrifying grimace Miles had ever seen outside of wars and the like. "Was Lisa Elizabeth Halden-Park. She was going to turn thirty-four this year. We were married for thirteen years. We have two kids together, and you just killed her in her bed like a _fucking COWARD!_ "

The woman's eyes went wide as she took in his expression, her body arching away from the source of danger as much as it could. 

Gone was the timid little programmer Miles had been contacted by. This was someone new, someone who had managed to survive Murkoff and being on the run and for the first time, Miles could see how that had been accomplished by the five foot and six inches tall man in front of him. There was something wrong about him now, a gut-twisting sensation of an impossibility and an all around off-ness to him.

Lisa Park, Miles realized, might have been the one trigger Murkoff shouldn't have pulled.

Waylon pressed his cane harder against her throat. "Besides," he continued. "Assassins generally need a name for their targets. Makes it easier to find them. Without a name, oh, whoops!" he rolled his eyes his good leg stomping down on her foot as it tried to ease off to the side and let her escape. "You might kill the _wrong person!_ "

The assassin let out a gurgle of fear, her eyes wide in a darkening face.

When she looked at him, Miles shrugged and looked away. If Waylon wanted her dead, then he wasn't going to get in between him and his prey. A few more moments of silence between the three of them and Waylon pulled away from her, watching her drop to her knees as she gasped loudly for air.

"You're not even worth it." Waylon declared softly, drawing his cane back and swinging it as hard as he could at her head. 

Miles winced at the thud sound it made and shuddered. Unsure of whether she was dead or simply unconscious, he stepped around her body to put a hand on Waylon's chest, watching his face for a moment. "Hey, Park, got to keep your head on right, yeah?"

The smaller man took a deep breath, nodding slowly. "Yeah."

"I think we need to get as far from the hospital as we possibly can. They'll contact her family and tell them what happened, but if you want revenge, you kind of need to not be in police custody." Miles nudged at him, drawing him towards the door.

Waylon followed, suddenly docile as he stared at the floor moving beneath his feet.


	6. Untamed Will and Burning Memories

He made it out into the parking lot before he collapsed.

His face was bright red, a string of saliva dripping from his bottom lip to the ground, only to be hastily wiped away. With a weak sort of noise, he smashed a fist against the concrete, did it again and again until the skin broke, barely grunting at what must have been painful. 

Miles crossed the space between them, dropping to his knees and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Hey," he said quietly. "Kind of proud of you right now. You didn't kill her like I would have."

Waylon gave him a look, eyes narrowed and angry behind his glasses.

"Yeah, I know. Doesn't count for much." he tapped the stub of his ring finger against Waylon's arm. "Crazy ex-reporter says he's proud of you for not killing someone." he sighed, then rolled his neck from side to side, trying to think of something else. "I think we need to get out of here. Get in the car, drive as far away as we fucking can, buy some shit with the card I swiped off the guy who threatened to shoot me..." he nodded as he said each thing, agreeing with himself. "Look, Park, you can't just stay here on the ground forever."

"...It feels like my life ended inside this hospital, so maybe I want to stay here forever." Waylon rubbed at his eye, tugging harshly at the skin beneath it before letting it go. 

Shaking his head, Miles made a noise of disagreement. "Nuh-uh, we're leaving now. Move or I'll move you, cripple-man. We need to get going." he could feel his temper flaring, could feel the sick ripple of anger in his gut at the thought of the smaller man just giving up. "Fuck, Park, you have kids they could be going after."

Waylon jerked, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he looked up at Miles. 

"Hey, I'm just saying, don't attack me right now when we need to get our shit moving." he hooked a hand around Waylon's bicep, dragging him off the ground and starting towards the car, extending some of the Walrider's energy towards grabbing Waylon's cane. "Now, we're going to get our asses into the fucking car, you're going to get some fucking _sleep_ , and you're- You're going to talk to the nanite ghost of Chris Walker or Eddie Gluskin or who-the-fuck-ever and you're going to plan and think because I know those things are kind of your forte even though you sort of didn't think calling me in through.

"We're going to stop briefly and make a supply run with a dead guy's cards and then we're going to make sure your kids are somewhere safe and then we're going to find every last Murkoff employee and burn them to the fucking ground," Miles practically ripped open the door, tossing Waylon into the seat and shoving his cane into his lap. "Got it Park? We need to be alive for right now."

"...Calling you in was an act of desperation," Waylon said quietly after Miles shut his door and walked around the back of the jeep. The driver's side opened and Miles sat down in the seat, brushing hair out of his eyes. "I never meant for you to get hurt in that place."

"Yeah? Well, it's a little late for apologies and regrets," Miles grinned at him, "Except for the possibility of exploding at some random moment, I'm doing just fine."

He revved the engine, a wild look in his eyes for a moment as he looked in the rearview. "How about we do some evasive maneuvers and get the fuck out of here before they catch up to us and put a neat little bullet into each skull?" he shifted into reverse, pulling the jeep into a tight turning radius that Waylon vaguely remembered from escaping Mount Massive. 

Without another word, Miles threw the car into drive, speeding out of the hospital parking lot fast enough to make the tires shriek.

 

XxXxX

 

The room was starting to feel entirely too familiar for comfort, and Waylon fidgeted in place as he looked around. 

"What the hell," Chris Walker's voice came from behind him, shocked and almost angry, "I didn't think they would-" he came into view, his body tensed like he didn't know how to approach Waylon right then. At any other time, the small programmer might have been amused at the sight of the nearly seven-foot tall man afraid of him, the guy who barely hit five and a half feet. 

Right now was not any other time.

Chris stared at him some more, studying his face. "That is..."

"You don't have to try and figure out something to say," Waylon held up his hands in a careful motion, "I should have known they'd pull something like this. I mean, they stuck me in the asylum and the testing because I broke my NDAs, did I really think I'd get away without consequence? It's just-" his voice broke, throat feeling suddenly raw. "-they found her and they did what they wanted because I pissed them off."

Large fists clenched and Chris's jaw went hard. "It's still not right," he said quietly, the muscles in his arms jumping. "She wasn't involved in this and their mess has spilled out into the normal world they were trying to hide from." He swallowed, his Adams apple bobbing. 

"I've come to find that people with power and money tend to get to do what they want, even if it hurts a lot of people without power and money," Waylon shrugged, trudging over to the table and pulling out a chair before dropping into it and hiding his face in his hands. "Without even having to think about it, they get to just ruin the lives of anyone around them because they have better lawyers and people care more about money and power than anything else."

"That doesn't sound like what I know of you."

"I don't care," Waylon breathed the words out, "We're going to get some supplies and then I'm going to burn Murkoff to the ground and salt the earth they stood on to make sure that nothing ever grows there again."

A heavy hand landed roughly on his shoulder, as gentle as Chris could be. "Good plan. Ideas on how to make it happen?"

"None," Waylon admitted, looking up at the larger man, "Whatsoever."

"Cool." Chris sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "When you go for a supply run, get a knife. Don't care what kind, just not a utility tool thing with add-ons. Get something sturdy, don't get anything like a butterfly knife. Don't do it. They're pretty but useless in what you're putting yourself into," he took a deep breath, then met Waylon's eyes. "You may just need to get used to the idea that you're going to die."

"Already did."

"Good. Great. Wonderful." Chris cracked his knuckles, "For your size and proportional body strength, I'd say a fixed blade. Nothing serrated because fighting with a serrated knife is just a horrible fuckin' idea."

"You and Miles would get along," Waylon said quietly, nodding as he stared at Chris's shoulder. "I'm listening, I am, I swear, but you and Miles talk sort of the same and you seem like you'd be a good match for this sort of thing. Both a little rough, both used to fighting and combat and upwards of six feet tall."

"Hm," Chris made a face, considering. "Good to know. I'd suggest getting a military grade knife, make a stop at a surplus store. Get a small boot knife too, along with a pair of combat boots," he pointed down at Waylon's feet. "Get rid of the high tops because they have next to no traction and I don't think you want to die by slipping and falling onto your own weapons." He held out a hand, then grabbed one of Waylon's in it. "You'll want to practice with them once you get them, and I might be able to help you with that. We've already proven that I can sort of talk to you when you're awake, and I don't know if that can be strengthened, but we can test it."

He jabbed a finger into the softness of Waylon's palm. "You're going to want to build up some strength in your hands. Buy one of those grip strength things at an athletic supply shop. I don't know what you have planned for their computer systems, but I'm assuming you've got that part covered."

Waylon grinned, his eyes half-dazed in a terrifying sort of way. "Well of course I do. I mean, the Onion Router set-up wasn't my best work, but I know what I'm doing."

"Good." Chris considered for a moment, then nodded. "Buy some dark clothing, possibly also at a military surplus. Even if not, find something that will have you blending in, not sticking out. Anything fully black will draw attention to you in a crowd of people, especially if you're carrying anything. Counter-intuitive to stealth."

"Got it," Waylon sighed, rubbing his face with his hands as he tried to breathe. "Everything feels wrong right now."

"I'd take that as a sign of stress and anxiety. I know it's not the thing to say, but try to calm down." Chris leaned an arm on the table, drumming his fingers on the top of it. "You have a dangerous life ahead of you, and I don't know how much of it is survivable."

"Up until I worked with Murkoff, the thing most likely to kill me was too much caffeine," Waylon muttered. 

"Those were the days," Chris snorted at his own words. "Those were the days."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finding that I really like writing Chris Walker as he was supposed to be in this Verse. He's lewd and a little rough, but a decent person. 
> 
> (Also, hints of Walkur because I am a little bit trash.)


	7. Missing Moments (Echoes of Life)

"What was the first thing you did?"

Eddie turned to look at Waylon, curling his hands together on top of the table between them. "What?"

Waylon nodded, looking back at the door for a moment, taking a deep breath as he tried to ignore the faint twinge of fear. "The first thing you did when everything went to shit. Had to have been something, and I don't think an immediate reaction to the breakdown of the rules would have been what you were like when I met you."

"Oh," Eddie's hands disappeared into his lap. His gaze landed on the table, purposely refusing to meet Waylon's. "I suppose...It's a little hard to remember, but I suppose I found clothing that wasn't the outfit I was forced to wear. I remember that much, sort of."

Tilting his head to one side, Waylon frowned, "Why gloves?"

"...You do ask the most difficult questions right at the start, don't you?" Eddie's hands were clasped between his knees as if he could hide them from sight and make everyone forget that he'd ever had them. "They never quite went with the outfit, but I did do my best to coordinate the colors."

"Right now we're both inside my head because apparently I'm part computer and a good host candidate for the ghost-thing inside my new and only friend. I think..." Waylon shrugged. "I guess I just think it's a little fair to learn about the people I have living with me now."

"Entirely so," Eddie's voice was quiet and his eyes were still pinned to the tabletop. "If you must know."

He brought his hands back up, carefully pulling the gloves off slowly. 

The palms of Eddie Gluskin's hands were heavily scarred. Lacerated wounds, old marks that must have been painful, thick lines across the base of one of his thumbs. In among the rest, there were small, freckle-like scars that Waylon recognized with a sick feeling in his gut. 

"Those ones," he gestured at them, his voice softer than before, like he might startle the man in front of him, "Are from a glass. Broken glass."

"Aren't you brilliant."

Eddie's eyes were half-closed, his gaze focused on practically anything else. Waylon watched him for a moment, then settled his hands over the broader palms of the man in front of him. Blue eyes flew open to settle back on him, the feeling of predator-prey still somewhere in the back of his mind, but this time it was reversed. "You never deserved any of this."

"I'm glad you think so," Eddie smiled weakly, his hands twitching in Waylon's hold. "Because nothing about the world suggested anything but my life earning me these scars."

Waylon frowned again, then made a face like he was trying to work up the nerve to ask a question. 

"If I were to go looking for you again, in the physical world, where would I find records of you?"

"...I-" he faltered for a moment, his brow dipping low as he let confusion contort his face. "-Dar- Waylon, why are you going looking for a ghost? There is nothing much to be found, in all likelihood. I imagine that all you would find would be remnants, pieces of history that aren't going to do much other than to make you upset."

"So, what are you saying, are you saying-" Waylon scrubbed at his face, pushing his palms into his eyes, his glasses riding to the top of his head. "-There's something left, there's got to be."

"Why are you going looking?"

"Why don't you want me to?"

Eddie's eyes were dark, a slow breath was drawn through his nose as he pinned his gaze to the wall again. It didn't remind Waylon of the asylum, it reminded him of a wild animal, caught in a corner with something it was afraid of coming too close. "My life was not..."

"I know," Waylon grumbled wordlessly for a moment, trying to figure out what to say next. "I know your life kind of sucked, and honestly, that's why I'm looking. Because maybe, just maybe, it'll help us. Miles and I are a little stuck on what to do now, we've got Murkoff goons probably hunting us down because we have the contents of two different goddamned cameras to fuck them over with. I think my line of thought is 'Find evidence of the victims of their bullshit and screw them even more'. I want Murkoff dead and buried," he sighed, then shrugged.

"...Peek avenue, with the cross-street of eleventh in Port Arthur, Texas. There used to be a small blue house near the corner. I don't know if the house is still there, it may very well have been demolished," a small smirk twisted one side of his mouth, "Though I don't know which I prefer. The idea of my childhood home being gone or the idea of it being kept as some life lesson to be learned, one in which I am the cautionary tale."

The room shook gently as Waylon nodded, rubbing his hand on his arm. "I think Miles is waking me up, I can feel his hand on my shoulder."

Nodding, Eddie stood, offering his own hand to help Waylon to his feet. "Just give me your word to destroy those bastards," he stepped back, snagging his gloves off the table and hurrying to tug them back on. "Else I will be very displeased."

"Eddie?" Waylon turned to him, waiting until their eyes met. 

After a moment, Eddie nodded. "Good."

He ruffled a hand through Waylon's hair, then walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie wanted a turn, blame him. I'm starting to really like where I am veering to in this story and I hope you are too.
> 
> Also, who caught him almost slipping up? Cause things are still a little w r o n g with our dear Mister Gluskin.


	8. Silence and Violence, Wary and Weary

It had never been any part of his nature to be violent.

Standing in the military surplus store and looking at the selection of knives, he frowned, trying to ignore the shiver of anxiety resting in his gut. Fear pulled at him as well, his hands clenched as he looked at a couple of different choices.

"Ooh, nice selection you've got there," came the almost-too-loud voice of the clerk suddenly standing next to him.

"I'm looking for a gift for a friend," Waylon felt the lie slip from his mouth in an instant, his stomach clenching at how easily it came. "He collects knives and I figure, even though modern ones aren't his main thing, a nice-looking military one ought to be a good gift."

"Very nice choices then," the other man leaned past him, snagging one of them off the shelf. "Here, this might be a good option. It's an Ontario 490 M9 Bayonet, completely military grade and actually used by them. If your friend appreciates a good, sturdy knife, this'll be the one."

Waylon nodded, taking it when it was offered.

"Thanks," his voice was soft as he considered the weight in his hand. It felt like a certainty, like something he had always known, and now it was time for him to be aware of the knowing. Faintly he could hear Chris Walker whispering to him, approving of the choice, the lie. Something further back, something he never really listened to, approved of the choice to weaponize himself. It felt like the more vicious version of Eddie Gluskin, the one he had met in the asylum. It scared him a little, how easily he gave in to their violence, their anger. Walker seemed to want him alive and Gluskin...

Gluskin seemed to want him.

It was insane, intense and frightening, but the nanite-ghost of the man who had chased him down an elevator shaft and out a second-story window still seemed to be sticking to the habits he’d had in life. He wasn’t chasing Waylon this time, was stuck firmly in his head, but he was still pursuing him, somewhat. Waylon tightened his grip on the knife, adding it to the armload of stuff he had in the basket at his feet. If he was going to face down the people who had messed Eddie Gluskin and Chris Walker up beyond repair, he needed supplies. The knife was only the first step. He ignored the urge to glance around and find Miles, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. This was the supply run before the war started, before they burned Murkoff to the ground. After a moment, looking at the shelves and walking in what he hoped looked like an aimless way, Waylon found himself in front of the boots.

It took some looking, but he found a pair in his size.

The checkout was surprisingly easy and Waylon made it through with little scrutiny. The cashier had complimented his choices, bagged everything, then sent him on his way. No Murkoff goons, no one aiming a gun at his head, no one following him. He got back to the jeep and tossed himself into the passenger seat, pulling out his laptop and turning on his phone’s hotspot. Once it connected, he opened his email, getting past the encryptions with no issues and barely even looked up when the other door to the car opened. Shopping bags were tossed in, the door was slammed, and Miles landed in the driver’s seat with an angry noise.

“Find everything?” Waylon asked, still looking at his screen.

“Food, med kit, some clothes. Had to estimate with how little you are, got some stuff you’ll probably be too small in.”

Waylon glared at him, his fingers pausing over his keyboard for a moment. “Fuck you.” He looked into the backseat, nodding at what he saw. “Other than that, good. Probably going to need that stuff. Willing to bet I’m going to get shot at least once. Did you get the packets of dental floss and sewing needles?”

“Yeah. Alcohol swabs and a couple of lighters, too. The good kind, with the metal casing and the refillable lighter fluid.” Miles studied Waylon for a second, he could feel the other man’s eyes on him. “You going to be okay to do this?”

“Miles,” Waylon felt something shift in his chest, felt hollowed out and angry at the same time. “I have nothing left to lose. My kids are with Lisa’s family and Murkoff will know I haven’t been in contact with her for a long time. I don’t know where they are, so they can’t use them against me. My wife is dead. If I have to, I will die to see them burn.” He turned back to his laptop, shaking his head a little. “And I will spread every bit of news I can. It’s what I have spent the last year and a half doing, it’s what I’m good at. I’m a hacker and a programmer and I write codes. This is what I do. I’ve never been good at physically fighting someone, but if the worst should come…”

“Alright,” Miles nodded. “Good to know.” Something pressed against Waylon’s leg, heavy and solid. “This is for you.”

“What-“ Waylon shifted his laptop, looking down.

It was a cane. It looked like it was metal and wood, much better quality than his other one. It looked like it could be lethal if he used it correctly. When he lifted it experimentally, he felt something shift just slightly inside of it. “It has a solid metal bar in the middle, supposed to be used as a secondary cane if something happens to the outer part. It can be removed,” Miles tapped the handle, grinning wildly. “In the event that it’s necessary. I went looking in the weird old people shops while you did military shopping. Found this in one of those expensive as hell antique boutique things. Figured you could use the metal part as a weapon if you had to.”

Waylon held it in one hand and hefted it gently, feeling the weight. “This will do nicely,” he said quietly.

“Alright, good,” Miles nudged his shoulder. “Finish your computer shit then go to sleep. Talk to the nanite-ghosts and figure things out for us. Bit of a drive until we get to that other supply store you wanted to go to, with the computer stuff that you need.”

“Yeah, yeah, got it _mom_ ,” Waylon rolled his eyes, studying the map he’d hidden within the encryptions. “We already know where we’re going.”

“Port Arthur, yeah,” Miles sighed. “But get some fucking sleep, hacker-man.”

The light outside the car was muted, turning quickly into dusk, and Waylon looked out the window as Miles started driving, watching the lines on the road speed by him. Between the humming of the engine and the hypnotizing repetitiveness of the road beneath them, Waylon was asleep within minutes, his computer under his lax hands.

 

“So we’re starting.”

Chris’s voice was hard, like he was sorting through some panic. Waylon looked up from the table to see him, shoulders raised in some combination of anger and something else he couldn’t name. “We’re starting,” Waylon parroted back at him. “Need to make one more stop at a store before we really get going, but we’re spreading things out a little, just to make sure we won’t be figured out too quickly. Miles suggested it, to make ourselves seem a little more normal.”

“But you can do this, right?” Chris studied him, his hands behind his back, falling into a military pose. “Get the right supplies and access their servers and release everything to the public?”

“I’ve spent the last year and a half making connections with people,” Waylon nodded. “I was going on a slower timetable than this, but if it happens faster than planned, we’ll be able to handle it. My contacts are waiting for updates every week, I’ve been telling them what setups I’m using. If something goes wrong for me, I have seven other people who all have their own networks to spread this out on. One way or another, Murkoff is going to suffer for what they’ve done. To me, to you, to _everyone_. There’s so much bullshit they’ve pulled that I’m surprised no one has gone after them before.”

A strange expression crossed Chris’s face, his scarred lips pulling down into a scowl.

“What?”

“I think someone has gone after them before,” Chris broke his posture, pressing a knuckle into the space between his eyes, trying to rub away whatever stress he was carrying. “I…I remember something about…Something. The military was doing something it should not have been. My superiors found out about me looking into it and then I was being sent to Mount Massive for PTSD treatment. The right strings pulled and everything,” he closed his eyes. “The perfect soldiers. They had commissioned the perfect soldiers, trying to make it so that ordinary people weren’t needed in fights anymore.”

“How did you find out about it?” Waylon felt his throat go dry at the thought. “That’s…Not good.”

“A misplaced file,” Chris opened his eyes again, walking over to a chair and dropping himself into it. “I don’t know if there was a mole who decided I was the best choice to get the news out there or what, but I was handed the file among other paperwork I needed to read and fill out. The file said something about the genetic bio-organic weapons called ‘The Constellations Project’. It mentioned four ‘soldiers’ being produced, with some interesting results. It looked like whatever was being done, everything else had failed and there was a temporary hold on the results being delivered to the military. So that they could test them some more, make sure they were ready.”

Waylon blinked a couple of times. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It really doesn’t,” Chris sighed, looking over at Waylon. “You’ve got a lot of work to put in on this.”

“And only so much time to do it,” Eddie’s voice should have been more surprising than it was, but Waylon only looked over at him and nodded. “You’ve been asleep for a while. Upshur is panicking and has parked the car in an alley, trying to keep out of sight. I can only hear so much, given that he is speaking to you, but from what I heard, he spotted someone tailing you.” The slight-British lisp was quavering like he wasn’t focusing on it as much. Like it was something he was faking. “You should wake up now and help him out.”

“What he needs to do is know how to fight,” Chris countered. “He doesn’t have a damn bit of training to be able to take out a threat like this!”

Eddie rolled his eyes sideways, glaring at Chris without moving his head. “There are ways around that. Waylon, wake up and help Upshur unless you both want to be dead. I’ve got a plan, just get going,” he reached out and pressed the palm of his hand over Waylon’s eyes, pushing him backward before anyone could argue against it.

 

Waylon woke up in the jeep, tucked underneath a blanket, and immediately sat up, breathing heavily.

Something in his mind felt off, pressure building up behind his eyes and feeling like a head injury. Miles was outside the car, identifiable only by the tuft of dark hair sticking up into view from the window on the driver’s side. He was curled down as far as he could go.

Without consulting him, his hands grabbed the knife he’d bought and he shoved his door open, feeling like he wasn’t in control of his body. His leg ached as soon as he set his weight down on it but it didn’t matter. Something inside of him was keeping him going. On one end of the alley was a black van, someone sitting in the open door of it and firing at the jeep, trying to take Miles down. Waylon felt something in his chest pulse, a deep sort of anger he’d never felt before, and his hand came up with the knife, moving automatically. It was like he’d wielded it his entire life and it scared him more than a little.

The bullets halted, the man in the van looking mildly surprised when Waylon practically dropped down on top of him and stabbed him in the gut.

It was oddly intimate, being this close to someone while holding a knife that was inside of them. Distantly, like he was on some sort of sedative and floating out of his own mind, he was horrified, but the anger in his chest was guiding him. He didn’t stay with the injured man longer than it took to stab him. He moved on to the tires of the van, slashing them violently, ripping the rubber from the metal. His body wasn’t responding to any of his own signals, wasn’t letting him be the one in control.

He knew what this was.

It was the same violence he’d felt in the military surplus store. The same, deep-down anger that had been yanking at him since he’d left Mount Massive. This was Eddie Gluskin at his worst, the way he had been when Murkoff had decided to take him in and try to use him. This was the ghost of the man he’d been even before their tampering.

The haze of red in his vision receded, leaving him standing in the middle of the alley.

The driver of the black van was unconscious, slumped over the dashboard. His partner was bleeding and unconscious in the open backseat. Miles was staring at him, leaning back against the jeep with an odd mixture of terror and amusement in his eyes. He laughed nervously, then shook his head. “What the actual fuck was that?”

Waylon looked down at the knife still in his hands, wiping the blood off on a tissue from his pocket and blinking slowly. He was still breathing heavily. The black van wasn’t going to be driving anywhere anytime soon, the wheels were so damaged he doubted it would drive ever again. His head hurt and his leg ached and he wanted to sit down and not move ever again. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I really don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie, honey, calm the fuck down.
> 
> Alright, so I'm back with this story. Anyone still waiting around to read it? I kind of doubt it. It has been a year since I updated it last. Well, whoever is here to read this, just know I haven't abandoned it. I needed to take some time and breathe and do college stuff.
> 
> But now we're back and Waylon can continue on his self-destructive bender and try to bring down Murkoff.
> 
> (Also: Did anyone catch the Umbrella Corporation business? Murkoff doesn't dabble in genetic mutations like super soldiers. I have a story plan going into effect.)


	9. Flurry Flurry (Too Much Silence)

“So, Park.”

Waylon looked over at Miles, scratching absently at his jaw. “I still don’t know what to tell you about it,” he said quietly.

They had been driving, mostly in silence, since they had left the last of the computer shops. There was food in the back of the car, computers and various things Waylon had needed to be shoved into the front with him, and a couple dozen extra knives that Miles had somehow charmed a sales manager into letting him buy all at once. He had said they were bachelor party favors or something, Waylon hadn’t been paying attention.

Now they were on their way to Port Arthur, Texas.

They didn’t know what they would find there but, somehow, they knew it was important.

“Well,” Miles checked the mirror quickly, flipping on the turn signal a little too aggressively to be casual. “You fucking gutted a man, Park. I didn’t even think you could squash a fly, let alone dig a man’s spine out through his stomach with a goddamned knife.”

“I have two of the most terrifying people I have ever met in my head right now,” Waylon aimed a narrow-eyed glare at him for a second. “One is Chris Walker, a military police officer who knew how to fight and keep himself alive. The other is Eddie Gluskin, known serial killer, whose favorite weapon was a knife. I should know that part, I encountered that in the _asylum!_ ” he heaved a breath out, nostrils flaring. After a second, he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Miles.”

“…Were they the ones controlling you?”

Waylon nodded. “Yeah. Eddie had a plan, he was the one who got me to wake up and go help you out. I’m a little scared of the implications of him being able to just jump in and control me, but when things are necessary, I guess it just…Makes sense.”

“If any of this made sense,” Miles glanced at him. “Both of us would probably be dead right now, Park.”

“True,” Waylon nodded as he flipped open one of the laptops.

More silence passed the time for them, the miles ticking away as they drove towards their destination. Waylon was the one who broke it, nervously and with an almost sheepish look towards Miles.

“If you look deep enough,” Waylon flicked a finger at his laptop screen before jamming the first knuckle between his teeth. “You’ll be amazed at what you find. For example, Murkoff has a sister company.”

“A sister company?”

He nodded, biting down a little harder on his finger before removing it from his mouth and wiping it dry on his shirt. “A group called Umbrella, specializes in genetics.”

“Okay,” Miles nodded as he took a turn onto a side road, glancing at the GPS map for a second. “So Murkoff has plenty of ways to do nasty shit to a whole bunch of people, good to know. What about Umbrella?”

“Chris was telling me a little bit about them,” Waylon turned to look out the window and watch the scenery pass them by in the quick-motion way it always did when you were in a car. “An experiment that involved a set of four. Super soldiers of some kind, the military trying to create soldiers that didn’t need as much sleep or supplies. I think Murkoff and Umbrella are trying to rule the world – megalomaniacs that they are.”

“Shit, so we’re dealing with super soldiers?”

“I don’t think so,” Waylon turned back to look at him. “The files I can find are telling me that the four went missing. Back in two-thousand-and-nine. Can’t find much else on them, it looks like someone wiped the system. If I had my hands on the computer the files came from, I could find out more, but that won’t happen until I’m actually in Murkoff’s headquarters.”

Miles nodded again and frowned, turning the wheel and slowing the car down. “This is it,” he muttered, throwing it into park. “And there is nothing here.”

He was right.

The house that Eddie Gluskin had grown up in was gone.

 

They both got out of the car and Miles sighed, tucking his hands into his pockets. “So this is where the Gluskin house is _supposed_ to be,” he turned to Waylon. “Any ideas as to what to do next?”

Waylon was standing with his hands on the car door, holding his cane awkwardly over one elbow as he stared at the vacant lot.

“There has to be _something,_ ” he muttered.

Miles walked a little closer, making a face before whistling tunelessly. “You sure about that, Park?”

Waylon rolled his eyes and Miles laughed a little, despite the panic starting to build in his gut. At the corner of his vision, he could see faint gray-green wisps of smoke and the frantic stretch of claws wanting to tear apart the world.

“The house on the corner’s been gone for at least twenty years,” came the thick drawl of a voice from behind them. When they both turned, it was to see an old woman with her hands on her hips. “You boys ain’t from around here, right? I know it just from lookin’ at ya. C’mon, I’ll get the two of you some tea.”

She gestured towards a house that was on one side of the now-empty lot Eddie Gluskin’s childhood home had been in. On the porch were four wicker chairs and she motioned for them to sit down. “Sweet tea in jus’ a second, just need to go get it.” She smiled at them before heading inside, coming out a few minutes later with a tray of tea and cookies. “What’re you looking for the Gluskin house for?”

“Uh…Ma’am?” Miles did his best to look confused and shocked, taking a cup of tea almost politely.

“Heard you mention the name earlier, don’t try and kid me. These old ears still hear plenty,” she handed a cup to Waylon as well, balancing the tray of cookies on a small table that sat between them. “The Gluskin family’s been gone for ages.”

“Do you know what happened to them?” Waylon leaned forward, feeling something driving him to ask, to know, to find out. “We can’t find any record of it anywhere.”

The old woman smiled. “My name’s Tess Grange. I’ve lived here since before most of the people in this neighborhood. The Gluskins…Now, it’s just such a sad story. The son ran off, according to his father, but I hear things when people think I don’t. He ran the poor boy off, though I never knew why or how. Little Eddie just packed his things in a couple of bags and took off in his truck one night.”

“Just…Off he went?” Miles frowned, glancing at Waylon. “I’m Miles, by the way. That’s Waylon.”

“Off he went,” Tess nodded, clasping both her hands around her glass. “His mother, poor dear, god rest her soul, passed away a couple of years later. Harold, his father, drank himself stupid and stumbled out into the road one night. Harold’s brother, Frank, put a bullet in his own head a year later.”

Waylon was trembling as she started talking about the entire family.

The only one Eddie cared about was his mother.

“What happened to his mother?”

“Oh, Charlotte was a good person. Kind, liked to make sure people were okay, quiet though. Even before her marriage to Harold, she was always so soft-spoken, quiet about everything. Wouldn’t fight back to save her own life but would give you the clothes off her back.” Tess shook her head. “Supposedly, she fell down the stairs and broke her neck at the bottom. Considering what sort of monster Harold was found to be from the photos in Frank’s house after he shot himself, I’ve never believed a word of that. Tried to get the police to look back into her death for a while, nothing came of it.”

With his hands shaking, Waylon leaned closer and smiled at her. “Thank you for telling us about them, it must be hard for you.”

“Old stories, now. Gluskin family is gone, pretty sure I’m one of the only ones that still remembers them,” Tess leaned forward and patted his cheek in a motherly sort of way. “Bless your heart, darling.”

That was it.

Waylon nearly burst out laughing, managed to keep it in by the skin of his teeth. Eddie Gluskin was a Texan, even as he portrayed himself as a British Gentleman, and it showed through in some of his mannerisms and the way he spoke. Even with an affectation of a British accent, he still had a Southern-sounding drawl to his voice.

He didn’t know why it was so funny to him. He suspected it actually wasn’t, but Chris Walker had a stranger sense of humor than Waylon did.

Miles looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Hey Tess, did anyone ever come to the house before us? Looking for something left behind by the Gluskins?”

“Matter of fact, some people did. Couple of suits, stood out like sore thumbs in this neighborhood. Said they were government of some kind, fake badges. Good fake badges, but still fake. I chased ‘em off quick enough.” Tess grinned, a couple of gold teeth flashing in her smile. It was the sort of smile one would see on an alligator just as it was about to chew into you. “Sat on my porch with a shotgun for a few days. Noticed them digging in the back for a bit, managed to just about shoot off the ear of the jackass who’d tried to threaten me. Saw their faces, for all the good it did me.”

“Actual rounds or what?” Miles laughed a little, taking a sip of his tea.

“Buckshot. Would’a hurt more if I got ‘em in the chest and they had to walk away from it. Figured it’d make enough of a warning shot.”

Miles set down his glass and nearly choked on the tea he was trying to swallow. “Tess, you might be my new favorite person.” He cleared his throat, a hand to his chest as he got the liquid down. “Any idea what they were digging for?”

“Nah,” Tess stood up slowly, looking at Waylon. “You want to know where they were digging.”

“Yes,” Waylon nodded, looking up at her.

“Come on then,” she headed back down the porch and waved for them to follow. Once they were near the side of her house, she snagged a shovel from where it was leaned against the wall. “I remember clear as day. Looked like they weren’t digging something up but burying something. Figured someone would come looking one day.”

She laughed a little. “And here you two are.”

“Yeah,” Miles nodded, hands in his pockets. “Did you ever hear of a corporation called Murkoff, Tess?”

“Those bastards,” Tess stopped, turning to look at him. “They tried to get me to sell my house, tried to get me declared incompetent and unable to manage my own affairs. I may be eighty-three but I can still make my way in this world, don’t you be mistaken! Tried to buy the whole damn neighborhood but I got everyone good and fired up and we chased ‘em out.” She tapped the shovel into the ground, stamping her foot on the back of it to sink it into the dry earth. “That who the suits were?”

Waylon nodded. “In all likelihood.”

“Hell with ‘em,” Tess turned her head and spat at the ground, offering the handle of the shovel to Miles. “Here, you’re the stronger of the two of you.”

“Why me?” Miles put on a shocked expression.

“Because your friend over here,” she patted Waylon’s shoulder, careful not to knock him off his footing or make him sway on his cane. “Looks like I could break him over my knee if I wanted to. Never you mind that I’m an old lady, I still got plenty of fight in me yet. And Waylon looks like he could barely punch his way out of a paper bag unless he got good and angry.” She took Miles’ hand and wrapped it around the shovel. “Go on, shouldn’t be too deep.”

With a groan and a roll of his eyes, Miles started digging.

Tess was right: it was not deep at all.

Within two feet of the surface, the tip of the shovel tapped against something and Miles kneeled down to pull it out. It was a metal crate, heavy for its size, and he had to yank hard to get it out of the ground. He set it on the ground between Waylon’s feet and pulled out his pocket tool. “This had got some locks on it,” he muttered, pulling out the screwdriver and slipping it into one of them. It took a few minutes, but he eventually heard the popping noise of it releasing and went to work on the other one. He soon had it open and, for the first time he could remember, Miles balked from investigating further.

On top of the contents of the crate was a plastic bag, sealed, with photos of a young boy being held against the chest of an older man. The boy wasn’t looking at the camera but the man was, both of them stripped down to almost no clothing at all.

The kid couldn’t have been any older than fourteen.

Miles felt a little like he was going to be sick. Glancing up at Waylon, he could tell that the programmer was feeling the same way.

Tess sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the photographs. “If that man was still alive,” she hissed the words out. “I’d take it into my own hands to make sure he wasn’t anymore.”

Waylon kneeled down and pulled the bag of photographs out, flipping them over so that they wouldn’t have to look at them. “Take a deep breath,” he whispered. “We need to get through this.”

With hands that were trembling just the slightest bit, Waylon began digging through everything that was in the box. There were USBs, an external hard drive, a couple more bags of photos, and several folders. The photos showed an older but obviously the same person version of the boy from the first set. These ones, however, were taken from far away, like someone had been watching him.

The reports confirmed it.

“Eddie Gluskin was steered towards living in a town about a nine-hour drive from here,” Waylon reported after a few minutes of reading. “Something about an influencing machine? Once he lived there, the report says they monitored him and cultivated the emotional outbursts.”

“What does that mean?” Tess leaned in to read over his shoulder. “What happened to Eddie?”

“They…” Waylon swallowed, his eyes wide. “They used a machine and a process they had patented to alter his brain functions. Not long after that, his first victim showed up.” He glanced up at Tess, guilt painted across his face. “Eddie Gluskin became known as a murderer and Murkoff was able to claim him in an attempt to ‘fix’ him.”

Tess swore in a combination of words that both impressed and concerned Miles.

“And,” Miles looked back at Waylon as the other man continued. “What did you say his father’s brother’s name was, again?”

“Frank,” Tess looked livid and Miles found himself liking her even more. Hardy spirit, someone he would gladly choose to have on his side. “Frank Gluskin. Don’t tell me that son’uva’bitch was even more involved in this.”

“Frank Gluskin worked for Murkoff,” Waylon said it quietly, like he was afraid of saying it any louder. “He was given the job of trying to create a viable host for the Walrider project. He chose his own,” Waylon gasped a little, tears building up in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. “His chose his own _goddamned nephew._ ”

Tess’s hands curled into fists. “You boys are going after them, ain’t you.”

“Yes ma’am,” Miles nodded, reaching out to put a hand on Waylon’s shoulder. “We figured it was our duty after what they did to us and what they plan on doing to others.”

“Good,” Tess straightened her spine out and Miles felt a small splash of actual fear at the anger in her eyes. “Burn them down. Make sure everyone knows what in the hell they been doing.” She grinned and it was a little feral. “Charlotte and I were as good of friends as we could be, given the circumstances. Eddie was practically my son, would have adopted him if I could have.” She pointed a finger, jabbing it at Miles. “Keep Waylon alive, tear their shit down.”

Miles nodded, saluting her. “Mind if I ask what you did for a living?”

“Military officer and then a reporter,” Tess cackled. “Ain’t never been one for bein’ quiet and peaceful when it comes to takin’ the abuse of others.”

“You are a goddamned hellion,” Miles pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Can I have your number so that we can call you and tell you what happened?” he handed it off to her when she nodded and waited until she had punched it in. “Alright, Park. Off the ground, things to do.”

Waylon looked up at him, eyes still bleary and tear-filled.

Hauling him off the ground, Miles took him back to the car and tucked him into his seat, settling the cane in with him.

Before he could get in as well, Tess was back at his side with a bag of something. “You boys have fun ruining their lives,” she told him with a shark-like grin. “Call me and let me know you’re still alive in the end, a’right?”

He took the bag and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

With that, he got back into the car and started it up, driving until Tess was a speck in the rearview mirror. “Park?” he looked at his companion. “Go to sleep and talk to them for a bit. Got the feeling you need to.”

The photos practically burned a hole in the bag that Tess had handed to him, all of the reports and tech left behind by Murkoff in the place it had all started in there with them.

Waylon nodded and let his head drop to his chest. 

 

When Waylon looked around, the room was as familiar as it usually was.

Chris stood off to one side, arms crossed over his chest, nodding in greeting when Waylon looked at him. “That was an interesting find,” he muttered. “Gluskin will be along in a minute. He’s trying to calm down enough to see you.”

“Alright,” Waylon frowned.

It felt like an eternity later that Eddie stormed into the room, running his hands over his hair in an attempt to push it back into some semblance of normal. “Waylon,” he greeted curtly.

“Eddie,” Waylon studied him for a second. “About today-”

It was, it seemed, the wrong way to broach the subject. Eddie’s eyes immediately went dark and narrowed.

“God DAMNIT!” Eddie snarled as he gripped the edge of the ever-familiar table, flipping it easily across the room. “That son-of-a-bitch deserves everything he ever got! Death and torment and pain for what he did to us! My father should never have had a child, he should never have had a wife, he should never have been born!”

Chris stood, unimpressed and silent, against the wall, one arm stretched out to keep Waylon back.

Eddie’s breathing was hurried, like he was running through the asylum once more. His shoulders were heaving, his body trembling with the anger coursing through him. “He used to beat her,” he said, his voice just as shaken as the rest of him. “He beat my mother and I picked up only the worst from him.” For the first time since Waylon had met him, the affectation of a British accent was gone. There was a deeply entrenched Southern twang to his voice, the words slurred a little. “Beat me too, did things that…”

He snarled wordlessly, curling his hand into a fist and slamming it into the wall. The room seemed to shake with the movement and Waylon winced.

After a few moments, the revelation about his childhood silenced, Eddie turned to Waylon. His eyes still held the anger, but it wasn’t directed at the smaller man. “Waylon,” he said curtly, still sounding like how he was raised. “Keep your knife on you at all times. There are _monsters_ out there in that world,” he crossed the room to Waylon, an echo of the knife in his hand. He shoved it, handle-first, into Waylon’s grip. “There is the Walrider and then there are people like the ones who did this to us. The real monster is not the one manipulated into a host and countless people killed for. _Keep your knife_ ,” he paused, searching Waylon’s face. “On you. _At. All. Times.”_

“Finally,” Chris grunted. “Something we can agree on.”

Waylon took the knife from Eddie and tucked it away before he took his hands in his own and ran his thumbs over the backs of them. “Eddie?” he ducked down a little and looked up, trying to meet the man’s eyes. “Eddie, look at me.” He softened his voice, pulling his mouth into a softer shape so that he didn’t seem any sort of threatening. “ _Eddie…”_

Eddie’s eyes, cornflower blue and wider than he had ever seen them, finally stared back at him.

He was a handsome man. If he had ever gotten the chance to live a normal life and be happy, without everything that had been stacked against him from the start, he likely would have made someone very happy. His lips were full and made for smiling, the sort of face that would have looked better always being happy. With most of his looks and coloring from his mother, he was quite stunning, even being in his fifties. Strong cheekbones and good genetics.

“The monsters came after me first,” Eddie whispered. “I pray that they do not find you before you find them. Destroy them, Waylon. Make them regret ever coming after the ones who couldn’t fight back until it was too late.”

Waylon nodded. “Chris, do you mind giving us a few minutes alone?”

The expression on Chris’s face seemed to ask him if he was sure, but when Waylon nodded, the man left the room with no argument. “Eddie?” Waylon caught his attention again, putting his hands on the sides of his face. “Eddie, look at me.”

Eddie took a deep breath and nodded, letting himself relax under Waylon’s hands. “Darling,” he muttered.

“It was not your fault,” Waylon whispered. “You went through some things and people pushed you into directions I don’t think you would have gone if they hadn’t. The reports we found today mentioned something about behavior modification.”

“I was still so _angry_ all the time,” Eddie hissed out the words, spat them like poison. “I gained only the worst from my father, let myself become so bound by my anger that I…I would have hurt people anyway.”

Waylon pushed him, gently and slowly, against the wall and into a sitting position on the ground. Once there, he somehow ended up in Eddie’s lap.

He didn’t move.

“If you had been given a chance, maybe some actual therapy, and a life where you were not being monitored as a potential host,” Waylon reached up and smoothed out the man’s hair. “Then I suspect that things would have turned out so much different. Murkoff was looking for viable hosts, even if they had to make them themselves. They have been doing this shit for a long, long time, Eddie.”

There was a second of Eddie remaining tensed and wound-tight, like he was going to push Waylon off and start running.

The moment passed.

Eddie pressed his face against Waylon’s shoulder and started sobbing. His shoulders shook and his hands came up to clench around Waylon’s back, nails digging in. It hurt, a little, but Waylon decided he was going to sit right where he was until Eddie didn’t need him to be there anymore.

Murkoff was going to burn, he thought as he held Eddie close, one hand on the back of his head.

For everything they had done.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I am not absolving Eddie of the things he has done, but I am filling in a backstory we did not get. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also: Anyone else getting some vibes of what is about to happen?

**Author's Note:**

> Oh for fuck's sake, I did not need another fandom to write for, I have a billion and one other things I should be doing...
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy the continuation of my previous Outlast fanfic, and I really hope you like where it's going, because apparently I'm going to keep writing it.


End file.
